


Envelopes Comin' In The Mail, Let Her Open 'Em

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Series: Cold Showers Lead To Crack [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Blizrabeth, F/M, Fantasy, Fetish, Humor, Look I don't know how to tag this either, Masturbation, Narcissism, Obsessive Rio, Other, Possessive Rio, Rio POV, Rio is obsessed with leaving his mark everywhere, Some Glimpses of Desk Sex, What else can I say it's basically envelopes smut y'all warned, crackfic, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: Rio likes envelopes. Maybe a little too much.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio, Rio/Envelopes
Series: Cold Showers Lead To Crack [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007736
Comments: 30
Kudos: 67





	Envelopes Comin' In The Mail, Let Her Open 'Em

**Author's Note:**

> I totally blame peer pressure for this nonsense you're about to read!!!!
> 
> Takes place in a vague post S3-ish setting where Rio and Fitzpatrick are long-term bros.

The night seems to crackles around him, his body vibrant like an electric wire. Cause tonight's the night he's finally going to retrieve that package. He's been all over it ever since he received that text, and sure, he could have sent Mick for it but it's not the same. It's not any package. Fuck, he's been waiting for this shipment for so long!

He nods at the young girl guarding the main counter as he enters the store and heads straight for the backroom. Tessa, maybe. Or Jess. Can't fucking remember. She smiles back at him, but she won't serve him the usual bullshit she gives to unsatisfied customers who want to talk to the manager. She knows him, knows what he's here for.

And James is a good friend anyway. Whatever-her-name knows that Rio is welcome in the backroom anytime. And it ain't none of her business what's traded back there.

"Yo, Fitz!" he greets as he crosses the threshold made of transparent plastic. "Got summin' for me?"

James is sitting behind the smallest desk Rio's ever seen with a pile of papers — invoices, presumably — in front of him, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose. There's a concerned crease between his eyebrows and he looks wearier than his usual. But his face seems to lit up a bit as he raises his head at him.

"Christopher!" he exclaims, almost jovial. Then, factually, "I do."

He stands up and turns his back at Rio to fumble in a pile of parcels carefully stored on shelves behind him. Comes back with a brown carton that he drops on the desk.

"120gsm grammage. Ethically sourced Peruvian adhesive. No watermark. Your exact order, I believe," he enunciates as he opens the box and pulls a sample out of it.

Rio swallows, his throat somehow constricted. It's even better than what he pictured.

"Ain't she beautiful," he whispers, running a flattened palm on the blank side of the brown envelope.

She's so soft. Smooth. The feeling shoots through his body, burns along his spine and he lets out a sharp exhale.

"Perfect," he nods at Fitzpatrick, his eyes focused on the product.

It's fucking hypnotic.

"Is there anything else you need?"

James's voice interrupts his thoughts and he exits his contemplation.

"Oh yeah, I gotta refurnish with the stationery. My usual pick. Got some notes to write."

James' shoulders sag a little.

"I see," he says. "What did she do this time?"

Rio chuckles. Hell, might as well ask what she _didn't_ do.

He shrugs, though.

"Same old, same old..."

He ain't gonna tell Fitz everything.

Back home he settles comfortably. Turns off the phone. Mick knows he's on interim duty when it's one of _those_ nights. He gets to answer the calls, handle the daily stuff. And if he really needs to, he's got access to the other phone, the one Rio never turns off and is only meant for life or death emergencies. Careful with that shit, though. Abuse once, and you lose your privilege.

He allows himself not to worry about business on those nights. Doesn't tolerate interrupting disturbances.

He opens the carton — Jesus, that is an intoxicating scent — and drops one envelope on the table, along with a sheet of stationery, the paper crispy and firm under his sensitive fingertips. Just the way he likes it. Smells like new, full of promises and possibilities.

There's a minor scare when he realizes that he may run short of bubble wrap, but — yeah. Will do for this time. Better not forget it on his next visit to the shop though, cause he _barely_ has enough for tonight.

And now, his favorite part.

The marker pen.

See, there's something exhilarating in leaving his mark on this actually virgin territory. Ravish the smooth and creamy surface with the dark ink he'll smear relentlessly until the paper has absorbed it, made his forever.

Knowing that _she_ will see it, read it, touch it. Run her pale fingers on the dried ink and embrace this glorious gift he sent her.

But — No precipitation.

He likes taking things slow. Running his hands over her, talking to her. _Discovering_ her. Some may say that there's nothing to discover about an envelope but they don't know what they're fucking talking about.

The surface feels almost tepid under his skin, the full grammage bringing a soft sensation, something plain, rich.

And there's the smell too. The fresh scent of adhesive, the musky perfume of the paper fibers. He could get high on that sheet.

He uncaps the pen, sending a shiver along his spine, the heat slowly pooling in his belly.

Now, where was he... So this time Elizabeth got herself a stalker. One who's more interested in her funny money than her good looks — or maybe both for all he knows, cause they're frankly equally attractive in his opinion. 

But he's done cleaning her fucking messes. And she's unsubtle as fuck. Might as well wander in the streets with a blinking neon sign on her forehead screaming _'money launderer'_ on it. It was only a matter of time before somebody noticed.

But hey, he ain't no bad sport. Just because he won't take care of it for her doesn't mean he can't lend her a lil helping hand. Mostly cause it's his money too. Elizabeth tripping on her blind belief that nothing bad can happen to her isn't good for _his_ business.

Basically he just did some recon job for her. That's it. Cause if he had to wait for her, well. Let's be honest, she'd probably still be figuring it out by next Fall. So Mick got him a picture of the offensively nosey dude, along with some related intel. The whole file is stored in a locker at the country club though, she's only getting the key.

Hey, gotta busy her a little bit with some puzzle-solving.

He chuckles, amused with himself. Pictures her frowning at the clue, all riled-up from his prankish communication. He likes it when she gets mad at him, blotches of red painting her cheekbones, and — fuck, these new jeans are _really_ tight. 

With a smirk, he digs his pocket for the key and drops it on the table by the stationery.

Now — he swallows — the note.

He smoothly unzips his pants at the thought, the pressure already making it too uncomfortable.

So he's gotta make his message clear that she can't expect anything more from him than this. That it's on her. It always has been, but he means it for real this time. He unfolds his last square of bubble wrap as he carefully chooses his words, composes a sentence in his mind. 

Laconism's the key.

What about _get your house in order_ , then? The unsubtle irony of the metaphor won't be lost on her suburban housewife entitled self. Yeah, that's a good one, he can almost see her eyes roll at this.

Especially when the said house does only contain an air-mattress right now.

He nods at himself with satisfaction and pours a generous serving of lube on the bubble wrap.

The blank stationery stares back at him, inviting, and — fuck, he cannot hold it anymore. He wraps the bubbly material around himself with his right hand, presses softly with a groan.

Man, it's too good, just the right amount of pressure.

His left hand is already shaky when he grabs the pen, and there's no way he's gonna write this note pretty but who cares? If he can make her squint, hell, it's nothing but a bonus.

He holds his breath, watches as the inked tip gets dangerously close to the immaculate surface. 

And closer. 

And closer.

His right hand starts moving up and down his length, slowly, and he can't repress a long-held moan when the pen finally encounters the stationery, leaves a black dot in its wake, soon turns it into a line.

He traces the first letters, barely in control, and fuck, it slides so well against the thick, good quality paper.

He licks his lips reflexively as he brings the final touch to _your_ , thinks about her face when she'll receive this, her blue eyes widened with the shocked outrage that he won't give her more than that, and — fuck, this feels so good.

His right hand accelerates the motion, causing his whole body to shift.

Shit.

The _r_ is crooked. Actually the whole line is, feels like this note was written under a serious case of motion sickness.

Well, he... doesn't really give a fuck right now.

He punctuates the next words with a series of gasps as his right hand moves quicker, the electric feeling of the paper underneath his left palm mixing with the memory of her skin, the mellow pressure of the bubbles reminding him of —

So the note's finally done. He's slightly panting, but slows down the motion.

He needs his both hands for a minute right now, anyway.

He carefully brings the corners of the note together, pinches the soft paper between two fingers and slides smoothly along its length until it satisfyingly folds, submitted to his desire. He carefully slides the key in the middle of the folded sheet and takes a shaky inhale.

Oh, here comes the first shot of real stuff. He grabs the envelope and opens it for the first time, with trembling hands. Appreciates the sharpness of the perfectly-shaped slit as he gently slides the folded note inside, careful to not catch a paper cut. These beauties can be venomous sometimes. Gotta treat 'em right.

He dreamily lets his hands stroke the thick paper, feels it responding to his touch one more time before he braces himself for what's coming. The need for touching himself is fucking _painful_.

He licks his lips. Twice. You gotta make sure they're wet enough to avoid undesired sticking. That's a lesson he learned the hard way. He brings the envelope to his mouth and brushes his lips against this smooth fabric, as soft as the skin on Elizabeth's breasts.

His tongue comes out, almost ceremoniously, and he starts to lick the flap, reveling in the flavor of the adhesive. Man, this Peruvian shit is top tier quality. He should have invested sooner. His tongue follows the edge of the paper along the slit and he can't help but trace a few patterns with the tip on the way. It'll stick better.

Then he folds the flap and presses the envelope hard into the table, his fingers running along the flap to make sure there's no square inch of paper he hasn't given attention to. He gives the envelope a minute to recover from his ministrations, lets his spit dry.

The taste still lingers on his tongue, slightly sweet around the edge. Just like she tasted, a long time ago.

His right hand darts back down to his cock, still hard and wrapped in bubbly delight. He indulges in a few strokes, his heart beating faster at the thought of what's coming next.

The envelope's still lying there, waiting for him to perform the last step. He'd better savor it. He grabs the pen once again, shivers in anticipation, and groans as his hand feels out of control. _He_ 's out of control.

Cause he's about to write her fucking _name_ and that always... fucks him up.

He's stroking himself at a maddening pace when the pen meets the envelope, and he's already lost any steadiness a while ago. Fuck, that _E_ will look like a _B_ but he doesn't give a damn, except maybe for the sake of calligraphy.

And it doesn't matter how he calls her, she's just the same bitch who's occupied his mind since day one with her big blue eyes, and her stupid mouth, and her — Fuuuuck...

He —

Fuck.

He may have whispered her name as he came, but that's not his biggest issue right now. The pen has slid in an incontrollable motion and it oddly looks like he added an _r_ to her name, which... hell, why not after all. He can name her whatever he likes. And if she's unhappy with it, well it's her problem.

He traces the last letters with a trembling hand, still recovering from his shattering orgasm.

Underlines his work, proudly.

He'll drop that by her mailbox tomorrow. Now he's got a bubbly mess to clean.

"So you got your house in order yet?"

Elizabeth raises her eyes at him, surprised at first but then he clocks a quiet light of triumph in her gaze.

"Let's just say that he's been taken care of," she replies with a smirk.

He sincerely hopes for her that she doesn't imply that she took care of it the same way she used to handle her rotten eggs back then. Otherwise they have a serious problem. And there's absolutely no valid reason for her to display that stupid, sexy smile on her face. She ain't done nothing exceptional, it's just part of the job.

Just makes her goddamn attractive.

"Have I told you how good you look behind that desk already?" he drawls, almost charming.

Damn, he wishes he could find a way to get her out of his system, once and for all.

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, " _Many_ times."

Which... True. But maybe this time he means it more.

He walks around the desk 'til his on her side, towering over her. She stares at him expectantly and he slowly reaches for her, runs a finger along her face, and watches how it unravels her. How her eyes widen and her breathing stops.

She's so fucking beautiful.

He slides his finger under her chin and it's almost too easy, the way she lifts from her chair to meet his lips.

He presses her against the desk to kiss her harder, deeper, runs his hands in the low of her back, squeezes her ass, and she moans in his mouth, so fucking _needy_ already.

Hell, it's been _such_ a long time.

From there it doesn't take him long to have her sat on the desk, wide open and mewling against his ear while he sucks her pulse point, making sure he leaves a mark there. And Christ, she's so fucking tight, and warm, and wet, and she... and he...

His eyes follow the line of her arm, down to where her hand is pressed against the wooden surface of the desk for dear balance, and his hips jerk out against her at the sight. There's a brown envelope underneath her palm, with _his_ writing on it, the black ink almost shining in the dim light of that stupid office. He could almost smell the adhesive from there. The top is torn up where she opened it, the shredded wound almost moving and strangely appealing.

His large palm comes down to envelop Elizabeth's tiny hand and he possessively squeezes her fingers, feels her clenching around him in response, the tell-tale of her pleasure as she moans his name in his ear.

He runs his fingertips along the smooth paper underneath, overwhelmed by the knowledge of her name tattooed there in his own writing. That's how he likes it.

Yeah, just like that.

His.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title is from _Not Tellin'_ by Drake.


End file.
